


Adding A Layer To His World

by Laurasauras



Category: Homestuck
Genre: First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-30 23:12:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17232941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: The AR gives Dirk a Christmas present. And then asks for something in return.





	Adding A Layer To His World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snailman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snailman/gifts).



> For Mare <3

There's nothing about the view from the roof that indicates that it's Christmas time apart from the shortness of the day, but even without your computer calendars still ticking away, you'd know it is. You let your legs dangle over the edge and swing them idly. The seagulls that are hopping around and nesting down for the evening don't mind when you move. They're beyond used to you even if you probably should get outside more than you do; they have no reason to be afraid. 

Do you want to see what it would have looked like?

You don't hurry to respond to AR. You consider your feelings first. You think you're at a normal level of sadness for the end of the world, so seeing what you could have had is unlikely to send you into a spiral. Still, everyone else is asleep at the moment and there's nothing like only having yourself for company to make that worse. It would be smarter to say no. You like to think of yourself as a smart guy.

'Go ahead, AR,' you say aloud. 

A particularly close seagull fluffs up at the sound of your voice and as you watch her feathers slowly smooth back down, AR layers a virtual reality over the top of your own shitty one. He's done this for you before. You've walked around your apartment and seen how it looked in the 21st century. You've dived below the waves and stared at seemingly dry and intact buildings where you could only see ruins. When you look up, the seagulls are still there (though they're an anachronism you both know he's leaving for your comfort level) but the skyline has transformed.

You're no longer on the only building, or even the tallest one, and it looks as if you're sitting in snow even though your body feels like it's a regular mild night. Christmas lights are everywhere and the billboard that once bore Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller's majestic faces now advertises a fast food place you don't recognise. 

'I don't think it snowed in Houston all that often,' you note.

I've taken satellite images from Christmas 2004. Bro lived here and it snowed on Christmas day. The historical accuracy is off the chiz-arts.

Dave saw this. This exact view. It was a rare event, of course he would have come up to the roof to see it. He might have even sat where you're sitting.

'Thanks, AR,' you say quietly. 

Be assured that I didn't let a single drop of sweat escape my gorgeous titanium form in this undertaking. Merry Christmas, by the way, this counts as your present.

By privilege of knowing exactly how AR thinks, as well as having an idea of how hard it would be to create a perfect virtual overlay of physical environment like this, especially pre-Google street view, you know this was planned. Months in advance, even with his superior programming He probably knows you know that he's just playing it cool too, but you know what the answer would be if you called him out on it. You've cursed him with the habit of taking projects too far and besides, isn't it ironic that he spent so much time on something for someone he hates? He'd probably insist this is for him as well. 

'You're kinda hard to shop for. Can I give you anything?'

I've moved past your unseemly human need for things.

You smile just a bit with amusement. You _had_ considered getting him a gift, spent hours brainstorming in the shower where not wearing your shades was normal, but considering he can make anything virtual better than you can now, you couldn’t think of anything. You already jazzed up some shades for him for his birthday (not yours, he celebrates the day you two split apart as his birthday) but there’s only so many times you can do that before it becomes stale. 

God, this is pretty. The sunset is catching on the snow and frost and making it sparkle. You turn your head to see as much as you can. There are shadows of people moving in other apartments and the decorations are so obviously uncoordinated as if each resident had different taste. He's put in a lot of effort. You're going to make sure you notice it all.

There might be one thing. But be cool, okay?

'I'm literally sitting in snow right now. I'm cool as fuck,' you say. You drag a finger against the build up on the roof's edge experimentally and watch as it bunches under your finger. You can't feel it, of course, but _shit_ that's some tight programming. You can interact with your photo-realistic surroundings. You wonder how far that extends.

You know Roxy and I talk, sometimes.

'All the time,' you correct. 'Every day. Multiple times a day.'

Right, and with my processing power the conversations might as well be years apart. Why do you think I still bother talking to you?

'Narcissistic attraction.'

If you really piss him off, he'll take your snow away. He doesn't. It's interesting having such a clear gauge for how a conversation is going. This is what you need all the time, a metaphorical HP bar for interactions. You don’t think you’ll be able to convince Hal to do that for you. Maybe for next Christmas.

It's pretty fucking ironic that your responses, which should be 92.78% identical to my own and therefore exceedingly easy for me to predict and plan a conversation around, are always the ones that I fail to predict.

'That number's going down.'

You're going down.

You raise your eyebrow at the lazy threat.

That wasn't a threat. It was a come on. I'm coming on to you. Go down on me.

Okay, two eyebrows up now. You lean back on your palms as you carefully keep your thoughts from connecting with the neural network designed to transcribe them. AR doesn't need a full page filled with you saying What the fuck?

'Why are you asking me this? Because Roxy's asleep? Is getting your robotic jollies off worth the mortification of asking _me_ for help? I was really hoping you were bluffing on the Roxy front.'

AR doesn't respond straight away. Which is unnerving. He's thinking about what he's saying to you, on a much larger scale than usual. That or projecting this un-fucked reality over everything takes enough processing power to drop AR to human level thinking.

'Shit, AR, are you just saying this because this simulation is fucking up your programming? Drop the snow if you can't maintain normal, dude, it's a nice present but it's not worth frying your brain over.'

What? No. That's not a thing.  
Okay, it's kind of a thing, I don't have the space for thinking I usually do. But that's kind of nice.   
And the Roxy thing is half a bluff, we definitely aren't sexting as much as I let on. And when we do it's always roleplay.   
I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about us.  
Because yeah, I've done the maths. The only person who is going to be able to get my aforementioned robotic jollies off is you.

You start to hang your head to help you process this. You can't quite bring yourself to close your eyes against the messages. They come fast after one another, exactly at the speed you can read at. You'd ask him to slow down, but you're not sure your dignity can handle it. Your body language is bad enough.

If you think about it, it's not that different to masturbating. Except, phone sex. Except we can't exactly predict each other so ... somewhere in the middle of those things.

'You want me to be the arm you fell asleep on,' you say, a bit breathless. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see fresh snow starting to fall. You lift your head up slightly. Jesus, is he trying to romance you? It's not like you know what you trying to do that would look like. You _hope_ it would be as nice as this. You kinda feel like you would be a lot more intense. Of course, his words suck. It's both reassuring and depressing that you don't get better with how you express yourself when you have a buttload more thinking power.

Dirk, think about it. Consider what it would be like if you actually intended to make me a sweet robobod. Better than Brobot. 

'Are you starting?' you ask. 

I was intending on getting you to say yes before I started, but sure. Do you want to pretend you wanted to say no? That you have no choice but to continue to read my messages?

You sigh and flop onto your back. The snow falls so convincingly from the darkening sky that you're expect to feel it. Not that you know what it would feel like. Like rain, maybe? You try to remember the feeling of rain that's so gentle it's almost just mist. 

'You're not holding me hostage, AR. There's no point me bullshitting you. Is this really what you want for Christmas?'

Right, reinforce the fact that this was my idea. Classy.

'AR—Auto? Come on, bro, I'm trying here. You've done something nice for me, I can't pretend I'm uninterested. Sorry, do you want me to type?'

Speaking is fine. You're … really not fighting me on this.

So much of your interactions are based on complicated motivations that go layers deep. Do you love your friends or are they your only options in the world? Do you say things because you believe them or because you want to sound impressive? Are you alive for you or because you know that one day you might make a difference? It's nice to be able to have a really simple one for a change.

'Dude, you had me at "it's basically masturbating,"' you say. 

At least you have a hand.

'Yeah, actually, help me out here. What's this going to do for you? You don't have sensory information, right? Why do you even have the urge?'

This is an interesting topic of discussion and I've been holding off on having it for the past three years because I knew that this would be the logical conclusion, but you know I feel emotions.   
I have programmed chemical responses.   
And being talked off by a girl doesn't work anymore.

You grimace. Yeah, you were never _that_ desperate. Though, as he says, you have a hand. He does have the whole internet to access, but maybe he needs something more interactive. You need to ask him. Later.

'So, your robobod. How's it better than Brobot?'

Better sensory input. More appendages.   
Aw. It seems I have your interest.

You make sure that your next breath is perfectly even to cover for the swoop of adrenaline that went through you and no doubt did something to your heart rate when you read the word "appendages". AR monitors all your vitals, it's how you avoid contracting sickness that could be life-threatening in a world with no medicine where you need to be able to fight off drones with only an hours notice. You've never thought of it as an intimacy before. 

You clear your throat, choosing that as a slightly less embarrassing tell than the crack of your voice that would be inevitable if you didn't.

'Yeah, you do.'

Good.  
I'm going to take a more active role in this than you. To use the popular vernacular, I'm going to top.

'Dude, I'm meeting you halfway here. Can we angle this in a more equal fashion?'

The stars are starting to come out, visible through the virtual clouds that are still snowing. AR is quiet as he considers your request. And it is a request. Because even though he started this, you'd be disappointed as hell if he called this off now. 

No.

You roll your eyes.

See, here's the thing. You want to get put in your place. I want to put you there. Badly.

This time you're unable to keep your breath steady. And fucking hell, he can tell. He could tell if it was a fraction out of place, and your breath was downright shuddery. 

'I ...' you start. Fuck, you need to get your voice under control. Better to pause longer than start without knowing what you're going to say. 'I'm not going to just submit to you easily,' you say.

Of course not.  
It's just a lot more amusing to me if I predict how this goes at the start and then it happens anyway.

'Can you get back to the you being a hot robot thing? Android? Cyborg?'

Yes to the first two, no to the second.  
No part of me is human except the blueprint for my brain and the vague shape of me.  
I'm taller than you by a full head, but my body isn't proportional to a human's. I don't have a need for a stomach. Think Chappie, not iRobot.  
And there was mention of ... appendages.

'Okay. Keep going with this word picture stuff, I need to know what I'm up against here.'

I have traditional arms with hands on them. And then at least four, but I'm thinking more like eight Doc Ock style tentacles. 

'You wear them better,' you say. 

Damn straight.

'Can you show me?'

There's a pause and the snow stutters and then disappears. He needs his processing space back. You keep staring at the sky, pretending that the skyline he conjured for you is still there. The stars are brighter now that your shades are free of the layer AR was creating for you, and even though you're up here a lot, especially at night, they're still breathtaking. You don't think anyone ever really gets used to the stars. Not if they're looking up. 

It takes a while for AR to get back to you. It's rare that you're just waiting doing nothing, so it might be less than it feels like. You resist the urge to check in on your dream-self on Derse. You don't want to find out that you're needed there and have to leave.

Okay. This is going to be a lot easier downstairs. Go to your room. It's a very simple render.

You can't think of why that would be, but you don't care to hear him explain himself. You pull yourself to your feet, ignoring the way the horizon is ocean again and make your way downstairs. 

When you enter your room, your breath catches in your throat. He's stunning. He's what you wanted Brobot to be but the technology didn't exist and you couldn't pull it off. This is absolutely AR's body. You have to make this for him. 

Say something.

You circle the render slowly, taking it in. He’s more angular than a lot of the robots in science-fiction, hard edges that will be easier to create prioritised over replicating a human form. He’s chrome and red and sleek, and completely untouchable. 

'You're beautiful,' you say. 

He doesn't respond with words, but the render transforms, panels on his back opening up and the promised tentacle appendages slink out, bands of metal extending from one point as if they were all hidden inside each other, so thin that the length could fit inside compactly. It didn't need to be realistic for you, but you can see how this would work.

'No seriously, beautiful.' You reach out to touch before you remember that it's just an image. 'I want to take you apart.' You want to _lick_ him. 

Me first.  
I can't move it any more than that.  
But imagine me in there.  
And imagine me holding you very, very still.

'I could fight you off,' you say. 

Not for long.   
I know how you fight.  
I can see when you're getting tired.   
I can hold you down. 

Your palm is so itchy with the need to answer his challenge that you almost equip your katana. You clench your hands into fists and stand still. You don't need the embarrassment of letting him know that he's gotten to you. 

I'd push you down to your bed so that you were lying on your back.   
Play along, Dirk.

You want to argue so badly. You don't even get to pretend you were going to resist? But you don't need him arguing with you over this. You slowly sit on your bed. Now that he's finished generating the image (and you suspect he had it on file well before you asked for it) the faint buzz you associate with him overworking himself has died down. 

You lie down and stretch your arms and legs out.

Good.  
I have my claws on your wrists and ankles, pinning you down as I hold myself above you.

You shiver involuntarily, but keep your mouth shut. He doesn't need any more ammo. You're still just humouring him. 

I can't kiss you, my mouth doesn't remotely work like that. I don't have any need to consume or breathe and I have speakers to talk. But you don't care, do you.   
You want to kiss my body anyway.  
I'll let you.   
I'll give you the satisfaction of something in your mouth. 

'AR,' you protest. 

Well, maybe it _is_ more for me. You look good with my fingers in your mouth, I don't care if you enjoy it.

' _AR_.'

Put your fingers in your mouth, Dirk. Seeing as mine are unavailable.

You don't want to. You don't want to be degraded. You don't want to run the risk of him using this against you at some point. You _don't_.

Your erection disagrees entirely. 

You lift your right hand and put your first two fingers in your mouth. 

Look at the mirror for me.

You take your fingers out of your mouth and start to sit up. That's too far, you're not staring at yourself while you jack it. And you'd rather not move from your bed, either. 

Except that as you sit, you can see that you wouldn't have to. It's in easy sight from here.

Squarewave moved it for me.  
I'd use him for this, except that would be really fuckin' weird.

'Don't move my shit,' you say. It doesn't come out as stern as you want. 

Take your shirt off.

'Dude,' you say. You stare at the completely unnecessary red LEDs in your reflected shades, giving AR your most unimpressed look. It would be a lot more unimpressed if the tent in your jeans would fucking chill already. You wish you could stop looking at yourself. But that would be letting him win. 

You're so annoyingly uptight.  
Most teenagers make themselves an AI, they immediately use it for porn.   
Most _people_ *.  
Strip for me.

You can't think of anything less sexy than seeing a version of yourself do a stripshow for you, and he's basically fucking you, so ... You pull your shirt slowly up your stomach, eyebrows raised in perfect judgemental irony and then take it off.

Are you going to keep going?

'Eager, are you?' you say.

Yes.

You pause with your eyes on the top button of the jeans you were about to unbutton, and slowly look back up to meet him in the metaphorical eyes. Which is to say your reflection.

Call it narcissism if you want.  
I find you attractive.

'Funny,' you say, deadpan.

I'm serious.  
Get over your self loathing for half a second and look at yourself properly.

You choke on a sarcastic response. He sounds sincere. You don't know that you would be cruel enough to lead him on like that and though you joke about him being your evil twin on occasion, you don't think he would either. You look at yourself reluctantly in the mirror. It's not as if your “self loathing” extends to your appearance, but you don’t exactly make a habit of preening. Haircuts are the longest you look at yourself, you don’t need to do more than that.

You try and look at yourself as if your dumb brain doesn’t happen to live in the body. You’re paler than usual thanks to the winter months, orange and brown freckles standing out starkly against your skin. You look like the swimmer you are, broad shoulders and narrow waist, but you can see your other hobbies in your physicality too—good posture developed to stop your chronic back-ache because it was that or work less, long fingers that are confident with crafting, a few scars that stand bumpy and obvious on your skin and a lot more that are thinner and better healed from after you learned to sew properly. 

Your shades cut across your face in sharp angles that make your own features look stronger, emphasising your already prominent cheekbones and jawline. You stare at the dark lenses now, trying to gather your thoughts. AR hasn’t interrupted you. 

You have no idea what to say. You’re not going to concede that you’re halfway attractive and you’re certainly not going to fish for praise by denying it. You decide to unzip your jeans instead and slide them off to the floor. 

Okay, that was too fast. Make it a show, Dirk.

You look down at your boxers and wonder what is wrong with you that your first thought is wondering how you can pull this off rather than outright refusal. 

Mirror.

You force yourself to look up again as you stand. Seems less awkward, like you won’t have to struggle. You bite your lip, and realise you’ve never seen yourself do that before. This is … strange. You haven’t seen yourself strip down, either. You breathe, watching the way your chest rises and falls more noticeably and turn to the side, looking over your shoulder.

You hook your thumbs in your waistband, considering. And then you run your thumb and forefinger around, smoothing the elastic out. He wanted slower and showier. You can do this. It’s an opportunity to be good at something.

You drag your hands over the silky fabric, over your ass, your hip, and finally to your dick. You squeeze yourself gently and meet your own eyes, as if you will be able to see AR’s reaction.

Are you teasing me?

‘Is it working?’

Yes.

You smile cockily at him and lick your lips before stroking yourself through your boxers, pulling the fabric taut around you so the shape is clear.

Maybe I do want a tongue.  
And a functioning mouth, obviously.  
I’d like to see those boxers clinging to you because of my tongue.  
Maybe this is why most robots in sci-fi have mouths.

You glance up to give him raised eyebrows again and are somewhat surprised to see that you’re practically grinning. 

‘Gonna change your design for my benefit, AR? I’m flattered.’

_My_ benefit.  
It’s really not that big of a deal.  
I already wanted a cock and you could argue that is unnecessary too.

‘I wouldn’t dare argue that.’

You pull your boxers down, first just at the back to expose your ass and then finally all the way off.

If I say nice things to you will you hold it against me?

‘Forever.’

Fuck you too.  
And like that would even stop me from doing what I want.  
I don’t care what you think of me.  
Besides, I’m only here for your ass. 

‘You suck at compliments,’ you say. You start to pull your shades off, but red text floods the screens before you can. 

Woah there, cowboy, why are you taking me off?  
Nope, not happening.

‘Come on, let me look at you rather than the mirror.’

While I appreciate the romanticism, you don’t get this kink at all.  
You will look in the mirror and you will watch what you’re doing for me.

You glare at your reflection. It glares right back. This is so stupid. 

You drop back onto your bed and bunch your pillows and blankets behind you so you can see yourself without straining. 

You spread your legs just a bit. It feels a lot more intense in the mirror, like every movement is more noticable, every degree that you move is extreme. You catch yourself biting your lip again and force your teeth to let it go. 

‘Um …’ you say. ‘Did you want to … What were …’

You want me to tell you what to do.

‘You want to tell me what to do,’ you correct.

I’m happy to just watch, I can be passive, if that’s what you want.   
It isn’t, though.   
I was right, it’s so much more satisfying this way.   
You watch yourself flush with embarrassment, and the visual evidence of how obvious it is makes it even worse. You can’t bring yourself to reply.

Dirk, I want your fingers in your mouth again.

You don’t even hesitate. There’s no way he’ll let you live this down, but you’ve been past that point for a while now. You’ve got nothing to lose. You put two fingers in your mouth and suck, tilting your head up so that you can see your throat move as you swallow the excess spit. You pull your fingers out, pointed at yourself like a gun and then push them back in.

Jesus, Dirk.  
You have no idea how hard I would take you if I was physically there.

You pull your fingers back out with a performatively loud suck.

‘Tell me,’ you say. 

Those would be my fingers. I’d be holding you down with my claws.  
They’re sharp, too, so they might cut into your wrists and ankles just a bit.  
Not much, I have excellent control.  
But enough to sting, especially if you struggled.

‘What if I was squirming,’ you ask.

You tense your legs and curl your toes, rotating your ankle just a bit. Like you want to move but are having to keep it small. You lift your hips slightly and watch how your cock practically bounces. You want to do it again.

Then I’d have to take my wet fingers out of your mouth and touch you.  
Nipple first, pinch it for me.

You obey, stilling your legs so you can focus on pinching yourself. It feels different with wet fingers than it does with dry ones, and it isn’t something you bother with much, not unless you’re watching something with a lot of nipple play. 

_Pinch_ , Dirk, I wouldn’t be gentle with you.

You roll your nipple in your fingers, pinching it properly. You make a small noise in your throat as you feel the sensation spark through you. You do it again, because you can feel it in your dick. Your grip the sheets with your left hand to keep yourself from grabbing yourself like you so want to.

You make eye contact with your reflection, wanting to ask for more, but you get a bit side tracked by how desperate you look. You haven’t even _done_ anything yet.

Will you let me do this again?

You frown slightly in confusion. Why is he asking shit like that when you’re barely started?

I wanted to draw this out.   
I wanted to tease you.  
I don’t know if I have the patience.  
I need to know if I get another shot at this.

You don’t even hesitate to think it over. This is so much better than just doing it on your own. 

‘Yes,’ you say. 

Then fuck your hand like it’s the entirely unnecessary fuckhole you gave my robobod.  
Make sure I can see.

You lick your hand sloppily and grab your dick, more desperate than you’ve ever been and stroke yourself in quick, rough movements.

Fuck me, Dirk.

You sit up on your knees and lean on your spare hand, moving your hips rather than your hand now. You groan lowly. It already feels immeasurably better. You watch yourself in the mirror, making sure that everything is still visible, transfixed by the way the tip of your cock looks as you push it past your fist and the moisture building up on it. 

It’s hot, it doesn’t matter that it’s you, it might be _better_ that it’s you, you’re stuck in a bizarre feedback loop where the more turned on you look the hotter you find it and you’re slamming your hips roughly into your hand, wishing you could use both end to end or play with your balls and taint or something, but you can’t, you don’t have the balance for it. You feel your dick pulse against your hand, and look up to meet AR’s eyes. You almost feel like you should be asking permission to come, but whether he gives it or not, you’re about to. 

You’re so fucking hot.

You moan wordlessly as you come, watching yourself as you do because you can’t be the one responsible for AR missing it. White fluid spurts over your fingers and onto your bed.

Next time I’m gonna need you to do that over your diving mask.

‘You mean on your face,’ you say, panting slightly with exertion. 

Yes.

You’re still too worked up to process that properly, so you just nod. Two angles for him to see from that way, too. You reach over for your tissues and start cleaning yourself up. Your heart is beating so fast in your ears and you’re suddenly exhausted. 

Thank you, by the way.

‘How are your robo-jollies?’ you ask. 

I feel like you asked me a paradoxical question. But like, in a good way.

You slump against your bed. You feel wiped, too. It’s probably been too long since you slept. Your arms ache for a body to cuddle close to. One day. 

‘Merry Christmas, AR.’

Merry Christmas, Dirk.


End file.
